False Alarm
by skyspottedshadow
Summary: Russia has never been nervous before making a big decision, so, when the alarms start flashing and wailing, he wonders how it would be to press the button. Cold War Era. Bits and pieces of RussAme.
1. Chapter 1

Hetalia is not mine. Duh.

Mmmkay, so this is based off a kink meme prompt right here:

During the Cold War, a bug in the Soviet nuclear threat detection program showed that American missiles were straight on their way toward the Soviet Union. Every indication said that it was no false alarm, and the policy of mutually assured destruction stated that in such a case, the Soviets were to BOMB RIGHT BACK. Stanislav Petrov, one of the people watching the system at the time, thought it was a false alarm, and refused to fire back, disregarding protocol. Turns out, it was no missile at all, and had the Soviets actually fired a retaliatory strike (to nothing!), the US would have fired back for real, ending millions of lives in the process.  
This anon would love to see Russia in Petrov's place. Russia refuses to fire back on America, either because 1) he puts his trust in America, knowing that he wouldn't actually shoot (from trust that America isn't actually stupid, to trust that America wouldn't actually want to harm him, to trust that America doesn't want him dead, to anything else you'd like), or 2) he fully believes America is shooting, and refuses to fire back (from not wanting to be seen as the monster for once, to not wanting to hurt America for any number of reasons, to legitimately wanting to die at America's hands and end it all, to anything else you'd like). The only thing necessary is a lot of peering into Ivan's head, a serious point of view, and characterization abound!

Bonus: some sort of closure at a later date, between Russia and America, specifically regarding this event.

Later, Russia would look upon the god he was no longer permitted to believe in and tell him what a dirty son of bitch he was. He had been at the command center for just two days, talked to just five people and given in to just one request for him to stand in for the duty officer.

And now lights the color of blood are deafening him and alarms are damn near blinding him. Or was it the other way around? He didn't really know anymore. All he is feeling was the result of years of planning and hoping and wishing and dreading looking him in the face, probably giving him that familiar grin that he longs to tear off.

Did America press the button? Did America go up to his despicable son-of-a-whore capitalist leader and plead, blue eyes shining, to be allowed to assure the death of Russia? And the death of the his sisters and the Baltics and everything else that was his? ...No.

Images have taken the center stage of his mind now, a clump of pin-straight black hair falling out without any pulling or even touching, wounds that look like the work of some damaged artist and sobs coming from the bathroom that are just as quiet as the meeting room when missing a very prominent persona. He wouldn't do it himself. At least not this time.

But, the question is, would America let it happen? Would he even have a say in his country's ending the world, horrible uncaring government that he has. He tries to match up the America that has ruled the fears of his people, vicious and uncaring, gleefully watching the world burn with the America that had nearly had a mental breakdown when the reports of his attack on Japan had been released. Maybe he wouldn't.

Someone is shouting. Russia find it very distracting. There are a couple of consistent elements in the frantic bellowing, though. Funny, common words like missiles and fired and 'Two, no, there's three of them!'. How irritating.

Maybe the question is different than he thought. Does Russia press his button? For a couple moments, he has the lovely mental picture of the missiles colliding and making fire bloom in the skies, producing enough smoke to cover the world, make it nice and warm, just for him. Why are the bombs a bad idea, again?

Russia snaps out of his train of thought. It has been increasingly hard not to yield to the bouts of nonsensical joy that have been overtaking him at the notion of screaming and burning. Does America ever have that problem?

Russia sighs and strokes gloved fingers over the control panel, noting the flinch of the man standing next to him. When did he get there? He turns and stares at the man, violet eyes indifferent and piercing, reading the Russian man in the way only he can.

"Would you?" This man has a wife.

"What?" He has a passion for woodwork.

"Would you?" The man is missing a finger on his left hand; it was smashed in an accident when he was very young.

"Fire the bomb, sir?" This soldier has a younger brother that would give his life for.

"Da." Russia looks away. He hates it when they have siblings. It reminds him too much of what he does and doesn't have.

"Nyet." For the first time in weeks, something Russia did not expect has happened.

"Nyet?" He wonders if the young man with the brother and wife knows just who he's speaking to. If he is a genius or traitor; the line has blurred and thinned so much that anyone who attempts to balance on it has fallen to their silent, unseen death.

"If the missiles have been fired...we are not going to make it out. I would like the Americans to live with what they have done, then perhaps something better would become of the West. It would be Russia's last gift to the world."

What a perfect idea. He knows that America's sanity, glass disguised as steel, will finally shatter if the overwhelming guilt returns with millions of bodies to back it up. America, his awful, deplorable former ally, his spectacular, wonderful enemy, will finally be gone.

He tilts his head back and tries to distinguish between his emotions, is it joy or despair that makes something behind his eyes ache? He hopes that he and America will meet wherever nations are sent when the country and government have dissipated. He would like to talk to him without death involved.

_  
Any ideas or thoughts or comments would be greatly appreciated. Any and all death threats will be reciprocated with unending joy.


	2. Chapter 2

Hetalia is not mine. Duh.

* * *

Russia never presses his button. And, as some sort of cosmic retaliation, the missiles from the West never come. Russia cannot tell whether it was relief or frustration that gave his hands a violent tremor for weeks afterward in any temperature. Although the trembling eventually leaves, the question in his mind never does.

Would America let it happen? Russia has already decided that he would not retaliate, but America has not made the decision. It is not fair at all. He feels as if the obnoxious man is taunting him in a way far more subtle than he has ever dealt with before.

But, he never confronts America and eventually their farce of a war, their sharp-as-knives standoff is over and Russia is still haunted by the question every 26th of December.

It has become a game, even, a game within a joke within mutually assured destruction. He searches for America every 26th and for some reason he can never find him. But, this 26th, he feels the dice have been rolled in his favor. Their meetings are held on a slightly irregular schedule and the location changes regularly, so Russia has only had to wait through 28 years to get a meeting in America on that cursed date.

Throughout the meeting, to make sure he doesn't disappear or replace himself with that look-alike brother of his, Russia stares intently at America. America does not appear bothered by the unrelenting violet eyes though, even though a nervous England is urging him to take the safety off his ever-present gun. In fact, America turns and grins straight at Russia numerous times, as if they are planning to go to an amusement park later. Infuriating little brat.

The idiot Westerner still manages to vanish with unforeseen talent in the swell of voices and elbows that clambers out the door when the meeting is over. Something changes though, the worn routine of hide-and-seek is disrupted when he finally leaves the building, swearing at himself for squandering this opportunity.

There sits America, resting on on one of the marble benches as if he's is waiting for someone. Waiting for someone. That arrogant son-of-a-bitch. He has dumped out all the spare change of his wallet and is meticulously looking at every coin, putting them into piles with no apparent rhyme or reason.

Russia strides over to America and carefully seats himself next to the piles of metal. America doesn't look up. He examines a small copper coin, shiny and new, and finally speaks. "Do you want something, Ruski?"

"Do you know what day it is?" America flips the nickel he's holding with practiced ease.

"Is it the 26th?" Russia snatches the nickel out of air before America can catch it and receives a slightly disgruntled look.

"Da." America's gaze has melted from annoyance into the rare expression of thoughtfulness.

"You know, I had been visiting Lady Liberty that day. The view was wonderful, but all I could think was how many communists were in my cities and how many capitalists were in yours. How, even from up there, I couldn't tell who was who. There were all just people." He looks far too wistful for such a young country to manage. America reaches over and plucks the nickel from Russia's hand. "Heads. Good luck."

Russia raises an eyebrow; is America stalling? "It's really too bad that in the end, bombs only really kill people."

He has forgotten that Russia cannot understand everything that runs through his frivolous head, and by extension, comes out of his mouth. "Amerika? What do you mean?"

America laughs, and it reminds him of keys rattling on tin. "The boss man wanted a weapon that killed communists. Not people." Russia's heartbeat speeds up a bit, which confuses him. His emotions are as pleasantly cool as the small disks of metal that are piled beside him.

"And you, Amerika?" America's fingers are drumming against his thigh, tapping out a muffled _thump-thump, thump_. Russia knows from years of spying on the man that it is a very long held nervous habit, and he can never decide if it is endearing or annoying.

"What did I want?" There's that rattling laugh again. "I didn't want a weapon, Russia." The laugh's pitch has risen unnaturally and the blonde nation's smile is peeling around the edges. "I didn't want to kill...innocent people." His words are littered with gaps, places where he has left out detail, easily filled in by Russia.

Russia feels a twinge of sadism flood from the recesses of his mind, and speaks without thinking, "Again?" At that, America carefully pulls the edges of his lips back up and forces the blinds obscuring his intellect down again as Russia wallows in regret. Damn, he should have held his tongue; thanks to his caustic remark, America has restored his favorite defense of idiocy. Russia hates it when he's like this.

"Whaddya mean, again, Commie?" America's grin is shiny and transparent, like glass; too bad it's harder to smash than most windows. Russia does not answer, and simply glares at the cracks in the sidewalk, remorse hidden in his slumped posture.

The shorter man seems to take this as an unsaid apology, the way the tense muscles of his face relax slightly, even though Russia most certainly would not apologize to the stupid Westerner, verbal or not. America stands and sighs, the sound soft and somehow mournful, "I didn't want to kill Russia, either."

America doesn't bother to pick up his spare change, but turns, brushing against the other nation like a cat, and walks down the street. Russia doesn't look at America leave; he is transfixed with the pile of coins that have been set into some kind of pattern. There is a circle of the copper pennies, surrounded with spikes made of gray coins of various sizes and a winding line of silvery ones he is reasonably sure are called dimes crawling nearly to where he's sitting. It looks like a small sun. A sun with a stem.

* * *

So! This is pretty much the end of this. I can't think of anymore. Yeah. Any ideas or comments would be appreciated!


End file.
